


Hunting the Hunter

by WolfAndHound_Archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Marauders' Era, Romance, mating for life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:20:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5921944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfAndHound_Archivist/pseuds/WolfAndHound_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quiet types are the most dangerous - or are they? Sirius POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunting the Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Lassenia, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Wolf and Hound](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Wolf_and_Hound), which was created to make stories posted to the Sirius_Black_and_Remus_Lupin Yahoo! mailing list easier to find. However, even though I still love the fandom, I am no longer active in it and do not have the time to maintain it. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2015. I posted an announcement with Open Doors, but we may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Wolf and Hound collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wolfandhound/profile).

He's watching me again.

I can't see him, but he's there. He's always there.

Watching.

Waiting.

He thinks I don't know. Thinks he knows me. And he does.

Yet, he doesn't.

Shall I turn to him? Catch those molten golden eyes with my own, for just a fraction of a second before he realises and drops them back to his book? Shall I watch the slow flush rise in his face as he wrestles with feelings of which he thinks I am unaware? Shall I watch the slight tremble in his slim shoulders as he forces the wolf within back into its cage?

The wolf is strong in him now. The full moon is still a whole week off but this is the wolf's time, and it's hard for him to fight it. I love watching him fight, struggle against the basest part of his nature. I love watching him win the fight. He is so strong, so very strong. But just once, just tonight, I will make him lose that fight and give in. I will hear the wolf howl.

I want that strength. I want to confront it and match it with my own. Because I am strong, too. Strong enough for him. And I am ready.

We are cousins by nature, the wolf and the dog. We are brothers by choice, Remus and me. Incest never sounded so good. I know it. He knows it. And tonight we will both prove it. I know it. He doesn't. Yet.

I will not turn to him. I do not want him to look away. Shame and embarrassment do not sit well on his beautiful face. He should feel no shame for his instincts nor embarrassment for his feelings. I do not need to see him. His face is burned into my psyche. I see him everywhere.

On the sheet of parchment before me I see his pale skin. The faint lines in the parchment are his moon-wrought scars. I will learn those scars. Each one will be carved into my brain, transported there through the braille-reading of my tongue and hands. I will feel his skin surround my own darker form until he is wrapped around me, and I will know his touch better than my own.

I touch my quill to my lips. They are his eyelashes. Long, sensual, honey strands which I will feel against my face as my mouth claims his, even as he claims me for his own. I will watch them flutter and close over his eyes as he takes me inside him, brushing against the top of his cheekbones, and I will envy them and those cheekbones for even the smallest touch which I will be denied.

My hands remind me in their diversity of his own. Ah, he has beautiful hands, long, elegant, expressive. He uses his hands to talk and I often watch them while they swoop and turn and curl like birds. I do not need to hear his voice. His hands speak for him, and they will speak to me tonight. They will tell me of his power, of his cravings, of his lust, his love and even his loneliness as he holds me to him. And my hands will answer. Not lonely. Never lonely again. Him or me.

The trees are bare outside the window. It is still winter. Spring is a long way off this far north. He tells me that I am like a winter night; deep, dark, intense with ice-fire burning in my eyes and the childish delights of Christmas. He notices these things and repeats them with affectionate humour. James is spring; soft, sweet, full of unfulfilled promises. Peter is summer; warm, welcoming, far too short and a little sticky sometimes from too many good things at dinner. He thinks he is autumn. I know why. The colours, the warmth which fades too quickly. Ah, but without autumn there would be no winter, would there? And I love autumn, when the leaves turn to try to match the colours in his hair and his eyes. And **his** warmth never fades.

He is my entire year.

His breath is the warmest of summer breezes. I will show you. If I tip my head back slightly and shake my hair just...there! That wonderful sigh, with just the hint of a catch. He wants to touch it. I know. I tease him. I don't know if he knows. I don't care if he knows. I still do it for the sound and feel of his breath around me.

His eyes show the fire of spring awakening. Beltane fires, bringing the entire earth back to life as the sun is welcomed after too much darkness. He is my light.

And he is my Christmas. He is everything good, everything longed for, hoped for. He is the blazing fire in the hearth; the fallen, pure untrodden snow outside the door that I just want to bury myself in. He is the excitement and anticipation in the mind of every child as they snuggle in their beds to dream fitfully of the morning. He is...he is...

Everything. Absolutely everything to me.

As I will be to him.

You see, I've been reading. Yes, me - reading. It would surprise him, too. But I've been reading about **him**. No, not Remus. For nobody could capture him in the pages of a book. Nothing so mundane could convey his beauty, his vivacity, his essence.

The wolf.

I've been learning the wolf. I need to know my mate.

I started just about this time last year when I noticed for the first time. When something in me responded for the first time. We were too young then. But not now. Now I **know** him. This year he can have no excuse. He was ready last year. I was not. He knew that. He has waited. But now? Now, I am ready. Waiting just as he is.

Waiting until tonight.

Lupercalia.

I am calmer than he is, because I know. And he doesn't.

But he will.


End file.
